AS I traversed to and fro,
And in the fields was walking,
I chanced to hear two sisters
That secretly were talking.
The younger to the elder said,
Prithee why do'st not marry?
In faith, quoth she, I'll tell to thee
I mean not long to tarry.
When I was fifteen years of age
Then I had suitors many,
But I, a wanton peevish wench,
Would not sport with any;
Till at the last, I sleeping fast,
Cupid came to woo me,
And like a lad that was stark mad
He swore he would come to me.
And then he lay down by my side
And spread his arms upon me,
And I being 'twixt sleep and wake
Did strive to thrust him from me,
But he with all the power he had
Did lie the harder on me.
And then he did so play with me
As I was play'd with never;
The wanton boy so pleased me,
I would have slept for ever.
And then methought the world turn'd round
And Phœbus fell a-skipping,
And all the nymphs and goddesses
About us two were tripping.
Then seemed Neptune as he had pour'd
His Ocean streams upon us,
But Boreas with his blust'ring blasts
Did strive to keep him from us.
Limping Vulcan he came
As if he had been jealous,
Venus follow'd after him
And swore she'd blow the bellows.
Mars called Cupid Jack-an-apes,
And swore he would him smother:
Quoth Cupid, Said I so to thee
When thou lay'st with my mother?
Juno, then, and Jupiter
Came marching with Apollo;
Pan came in with Mercury,
And then began the hollo;
Cupid ran and hid himself,
And so of joys bereft me:
For suddenly I did awake,
And all these fancies left me.
From Songs and Poems of Love and Drollery. By T. W.[26] 1654.
To Sylvia frowning.
NO, Sylvia, 'tis not your disdain,
Nor scorn, nor cruelty, nor hate,
Shall make my sadder verse complain
Or my well kindled fame abate:
Such goblins fright Love from a coward heart,
But one resolved like mine can make them start.
Contract thy brow, and let thine eye
Dart thunderbolts of anger still;
Storm me with all th' artillery,
With which Love's rebels use to kill:
I'll not retreat till I or conqueror be
Or martyr of thy cruelty and thee.
Shoot, Sylvia, then, and spare not till
Thy magazine of anger's spent:
If I survive and love thee still,
I know thou then must needs relent:
Patience in suffering oft-times hath o'ercome
A tyrant's rage, and made him change his doom.
But if I fall unto[27] thy hate
And stubborn scorn a sacrifice,
I shall be happy in that fate
Whilst with me all my torment dies:
Thus shall my constancy for thy disdain
Either begin my bliss or end my pain.
From The New Academy of Compliments, 1671.
I[28] DREAM'D we both were in a bed
Of roses almost smothered;
But when I heard thy sweet breath say
"Faults done by night will blush by day,"
I kiss'd thee panting, and I call
The night to record that was all.
But ah, if empty dreams so please,
Love give me more such nights as these.